Soldier Under Siege

by Elle Kennedy

  “They’ll ask a bunch of questions, maybe hurl out some threats.” Tate shrugged. “They want me, not Ben, and once they confirm that I’m not at the cabin, they’ll move on.”

  A cloud of annoyance and frustration swirled through her. “Doesn’t it drive you crazy, not knowing why people are after you?”

  “Yep.”

  “Can’t you just...I don’t know, call your former commander and demand an explanation?”

  “You think I didn’t already do that?” he answered dryly. “Once the third member of my unit was found dead—a mugging gone awry, of course—I put two and two together and started to see the pattern. I called my former CO with my concerns, which he brushed off.”

  “So you think he’s in on it?”

  “He’s gotta be. I contacted him again after Berk died—Stephen Berkowski, a damn good soldier, the fifth and final one to die. My CO told me to quit asking questions and accused me of being paranoid. A few days later, someone nearly blew my head off on the street. So yeah, I think Commander Hahn is absolutely aware of what’s happening and why.”

  Eva frowned, feeling angry on Tate’s behalf. “Have you considered kidnapping this Hahn and torturing him until he tells you what the heck is going on?”

  Tate laughed. “I’d considered it, yes, but Nick and Seb talked me out of it.”

  At the mention of Tate’s men, a pang of longing tugged at her heart, and the image of her little boy’s blue eyes and mischievous grin flashed across her brain.

  “When can we call Nick again?” she asked. “I haven’t spoken to my son in two days.”

  “Nick would’ve contacted us if anything was wrong.”

  “I know that, but I still want to hear Rafe’s voice and tell him that his mother loves him.” Her lips tightened. “Is that too much to ask?”

  Tate arched his brows. “I didn’t force you to leave your son behind, Eva. Going after Cruz was your idea, remember?”

  Her shoulder sagged. “I know. I’m sorry. I just miss my son, that’s all.” Before she could stop them, tears pricked her eyes. “He’s all I have, Tate. For the past three years, he’s been the only constant in my life. I can’t see my parents, my family, my friends.” A laugh popped out. “I’m twenty-five years old, and my only friend and confidant is a three-year-old boy. How sad is that?”

  “You’re still young,” he said roughly. “You’ve got a lot of time, Eva. Once you get Cruz off your back, you can start over. You’ll have your family and friends back in your life, and you’ll make new friends, fall in love, you know, all that stuff normal people do.”

  His last comment brought a smile to her lips. “Let me guess, you don’t consider yourself one of those normal people, do you?”

  “Me? Normal?” He shot her a self-deprecating grin. “Baby, I’m thirty-four years old, on the run from my own government, living in a fortress in Mexico and trekking across this godforsaken country to murder a man. Tell me, is that normal?”

  Despite the dismal facts he’d recited, she had to giggle. “Definitely not.”

  They both fell silent after that and Eva used the time to mull over everything Tate had said, coming to the conclusion that it probably was for the best if they didn’t sleep together again. His life was even more complicated than hers, and he was right—nothing was normal about his situation.

  But for her, normalcy was almost within her grasp. Once Hector was gone, Rafe would be safe. She would be safe. And the two of them could start over, just like Tate said.

  The longer the silence dragged on, the sleepier Eva became. The darkness of the cave made her eyelids droop and her limbs loosen, and she must have fallen asleep, because the next thing she knew, someone was shaking her shoulders.

  Blinking in disorientation, her eyes focused to find Tate bending over her, a grave look on his handsome face.

  “Did I fall asleep?” she mumbled, sitting up straighter and rubbing her eyes. “Is something wrong?”

  “Yes, and I don’t know.” His voice sounded grim. “I’m heading back to the cabin.”

  His announcement snapped her into a state of full alertness. “What? Why?”

  “Because Ben still hasn’t shown up. It’s an hour past the time we were supposed to meet.”

  “Maybe he’s just late,” she said feebly.

  “Maybe.” Tate rose to his full height, and his head was inches from bumping the ceiling. “I want you to stay here while I find out what the holdup is.”

  She hopped to her feet, panicked. “You’re leaving me?”

  “Only for an hour or two. I’m going to do some recon on the cabin and see what’s up.”

  “Then I’m coming with you.”

  “No.” His tone brooked no argument. “You’re staying here. You’ll only slow me down.”

  Indignation hardened her jaw. “Have I slowed you down so far?”

  He ignored the question. “You’re not coming.” He abruptly turned away from her and grabbed his rifle. “I’m leaving the packs and duffel here. If you get hungry, there’s a ton of MREs in my pack. Beef teriyaki or veggie bean-and-rice burritos—take your pick. But don’t start a fire.”

  Eva knew there was no protesting or changing his mind. He was a man on a mission—his broad shoulders set high, his jaw tight, green eyes gleaming with fortitude. Yet beneath the commanding demeanor, she sensed something else. Desperation? Fear? She couldn’t put her finger on it, but she knew without a doubt that Tate was not as calm and composed as he was acting.

  He was worried about his friend, and frankly, as she glanced at her watch and noted the time, she was getting pretty worried, too. She hadn’t known Ben for very long, but she liked the man, and he wouldn’t even be involved in any of this in the first place if it weren’t for her.

  As she watched Tate go, she bit her lip and prayed that Ben was all right.

  Because if he wasn’t, she knew Tate would hold her responsible for it.

  Hell, she’d hold herself responsible.

  * * *

  Death was in the air.

  Tate couldn’t explain it, but the moment he neared the woods behind the cabin, his heart sank to the pit of his stomach like a cement block and he knew he was too late.

  Maybe it was the silence—the forest was too damn quiet for his liking—or it could be the coppery scent in the breeze, though he suspected he wasn’t actually smelling blood.

  Just anticipating it.

  Keeping a solid grip on his rifle, he positioned himself at the edge of the rocky slope that would provide him with a better view of the cabin. The rear of the structure looked innocuous. No soldiers, no Ben, no sign of foul play, yet Tate’s instincts continued to buzz, persistent and ominous.

  Moving soundlessly, he crept through the trees and headed for the front of the cabin. His breathing was steady, his pulse regular—neither of those vitals changed, not even when the gruesome sight assaulted his vision.

  But a part of him died. Right there, on the spot.

  “Goddamn it, Ben,” he mumbled, as hot agony streaked up his throat to choke him.

  Ben’s body was sprawled on the bottom steps of the porch, one lifeless arm flung out, stiff fingers still wrapped around a 9 mm that he probably hadn’t even had a chance to use. Blood from the bullet hole in Ben’s forehead continued to drip onto the dirt, forming a crimson puddle that made Tate see red. Literally and figuratively.

  But he wasn’t surprised. Oh, no. There had only been one possible explanation for Ben being a no-show at the rendezvous point. But hell, those soldiers hadn’t even given him a chance. They must have stalked up to the cabin and shot him point-blank. Had they even asked him about Tate’s whereabouts before they blew his brains out?

  A fire of rage scorched a path through his veins. His gaze stayed glued to his friend’s dead body. Damn it. God-frickin-damn it. He’d known Ben since they were eighteen years old, for Chrissake. Other than Will, Ben was the only person Tate had trusted implicitly and without question, and now he was gone. All
because Tate had involved him in this foolish quest to kill Hector Cruz.

  He wanted to go to his friend. Give him a proper burial, touch his hand, try to express how much Ben had meant to him all these years. But he couldn’t. His gut told him the soldiers who’d killed Ben were long gone, but from his vantage point, he couldn’t get a good look at the cabin’s windows. For all he knew, those bastards were lying in wait inside, hoping Tate would walk right into an ambush like some kind of novice.

  Ben will understand.

  Right. Ben would understand that his only friend had no choice but to leave his dead body lying there to rot in the sun.

  Fury skyrocketed through him.

  “No,” he said through clenched teeth. “No frickin’ way.”

  He couldn’t just leave his buddy there, couldn’t let him become food for scavengers. If an ambush awaited him, then so be it. He refused to disrespect Ben, not after everything the man had done for him.

  Raising his rifle, Tate emerged from the brush, hyperaware that he was out in the open and that any amateur with a sniper rifle could pick him off. To his relief, no bullets plowed him down as he made his way toward his friend’s body.

  He was ten yards away when he noticed another pool of blood on the dirt, and a wave of satisfaction swelled in his gut. Ben had managed to fire a shot before he’d died. The size of the puddle hinted that the recipient of Ben’s bullet had lost a decent amount of blood. Good.

  Tire tracks also streaked the dirt, which told him that the soldiers had come and gone in a military-issued jeep. It was a reassuring sign—perhaps nobody was waiting for him in the cabin after all.

  When he neared his fallen comrade, he found himself unable to keep it together. His pulse suddenly went off-kilter, his throat tightened to the point of suffocation, and it felt as if someone was pinching his chest with rusty pliers.

  Ben’s dark brown eyes were open. Expressionless, and yet Tate could swear his friend was glaring at him in accusation.

  The only way to get through the next ten minutes was to shut down. Mentally. Emotionally. Moving on autopilot, he carefully dragged Ben’s massive body around the side of the cabin, toward the edge of the woods where the dirt wasn’t as compact.

  He didn’t breathe, barely blinked, just located the shovel from the tin shed behind the house and dug a grave for his friend as if it were something he did every day. The whole process took an hour. One hour for four feet of earth to dislodge from the ground, for Ben’s body to slide into that hole, for that dirt to cover it, for Tate to construct a cross from two branches.

  One last thing before he could walk away. He dug a hand in his pocket and fished out the silver chain he’d removed from Ben’s beefy neck. Dog tags, remnants of Ben’s army days.

  Looping the tags around the makeshift cross, Tate stared at the grave for several long moments before finally wrenching his gaze away.

  His friend was dead. Another casualty of the war he’d found himself fighting. A war he didn’t even know why he was fighting.

  But he knew one thing, and that was that Ben Hastings was not going to die in vain.

  The San Marquez military was clearly in cahoots with the United States in tracking Tate and his men down, but a bunch of soldier grunts weren’t calling the shots. Someone with more clout, someone of importance, was giving the orders. That someone had ordered the unit in the jungle to shoot first and ask questions later, and now they’d done the same thing again with Ben.

  Well, Tate was going to track that someone down, and when he did, maybe he’d take a page out of these bastards’ book and do the exact same thing.

  Don’t ask questions.

  Just shoot to kill.

  Chapter 13

  Eva was waiting outside for him when Tate strode back to the cave hours later. He’d taken his time walking back because he’d wanted to avoid the questions Eva would surely have, and he’d needed to say goodbye to his friend in private.

  Ironically, the weather had decided to match his mood. It was only four in the afternoon, but the sky had turned gray sometime during the walk from the cabin to the cave. Black thunderclouds loomed overhead. The temperature had grown cooler, and the wind picked up, rustling the tails of his olive-green long-sleeved shirt.

  “Hey,” Eva called tentatively when he ascended the slope.

  “Hey,” he said, keeping his tone neutral.

  After almost a week with Eva, he’d learned that she was too damn caring for her own good, and he had no doubt that she would shed tears for Ben, despite the fact that she’d hardly known him at all. A part of him was tempted to withhold Ben’s death from her just to avoid an emotional situation, but not telling her wasn’t even an option, because she took one look at his face and seemed to know exactly what happened.

  And sure enough, tears filled her eyes.

  “Oh. Oh, God, Tate. Is he dead?”

  He swallowed.

  “Is he?” she said, her voice wobbling.

  After a second, he finally nodded. “Shot to death. I...I buried him.”

  His voice wobbled, too, and the evidence of his shaken composure annoyed the hell out of him. He didn’t want this woman to know how much Ben’s death had torn him apart. Keeping his emotions hidden was a skill he’d mastered at a young age; it had been the only way to gain the upper hand with his old man. His father could smell weakness and vulnerability from miles away, and if Tate revealed either shortcoming, the beatings would be substantially worse. Needless to say, he’d quickly learned to bury his emotions.

  He didn’t like giving Eva a glimpse of what lay beyond the composed, indifferent mask he usually wore, and when she did precisely what he’d expected and stared at him with those big, sympathetic eyes, tears clinging to her sooty lashes, anger replaced his irritation.

  “Why are you crying?” he muttered. “You didn’t even know him, for Chrissake.”

  Two strands of tears slid down her cheeks, and she reached up to wipe them away with her sleeve, shooting him a scowl as she responded with, “Are you seriously telling me I’m not allowed to cry for him? Because too bad. I liked Ben, and his death saddens me, so if I want to cry about it, I damn well will. And FYI, he’s not the only one I’m crying for.”

  Tate frowned.

  “That’s right, I’m crying for you, too. You lost your friend, Tate. It must be tearing you apart, but we both know you’re not going to admit it. You’ll just pretend it’s no big deal. You know, because you’re a big, tough military man who doesn’t let his emotions get the best of him.”

  “Save your tears,” he snapped. “I don’t need you or anyone else crying on my behalf, sweetheart.”

  No sooner than the words left his mouth than the sky cracked with thunder and the clouds released sheets of rain that fell so hard they nearly knocked him over. The downpour was so violent he and Eva were drenched in a matter of seconds.

  Cursing, he grabbed her arm and herded her into the cave, where total darkness enveloped them. He couldn’t see a thing, but he sure as hell felt it when Eva pressed her lips to his.

  Although he’d promised himself he wouldn’t sleep with Eva again, Tate couldn’t resist parting his lips to grant her tongue access to his mouth. Here in the dark, he didn’t have to see the compassion in her eyes, or risk her seeing the absolute agony in his, and he knew the kiss was Eva’s way of offering comfort.

  “Make love to me again.” Her voice came out throaty, her breath warm against his lips.

  Groaning, Tate ran his hands down the sleeves of her wet shirt before peeling the garment off her slender shoulders and tossing it aside. He couldn’t have stopped this even if he’d tried. He was too pissed off right now, too wrecked and too broken to care about anything other than getting Eva naked and losing himself in the pleasure she had to offer.

  After their damp clothing was tossed aside, he yanked her against him, and naked flesh met naked flesh. He was mindful of her injured arm, but it didn’t seem to be bothering her because she raised both arm
s and tightly twined them around his neck, forcing his head down for another kiss.

  There was something desperate about the entire encounter. He found that his hands were shaking as he roamed her endless supply of curves, squeezing her perfect breasts, skimming his fingers over her hips, cupping her firm bottom.

  Each breath came out ragged, each beat of his heart sending a jolt of pain through his body. He couldn’t stop thinking about Ben’s empty eyes. Ben’s lifeless body.

  Damn it. He’d gotten Ben killed by involving him in this mess. How many more people had to die because of him before he learned his damn lesson?

  “Don’t think about it.”

  Eva’s soft voice cut into his dark thoughts. Her hands gripped his jaw, forcing him to look at her. Her face was cloaked in shadows, but he saw the intensity in those blue eyes, the firm set of her sexy lips.

  “Put the pain away,” she whispered, dragging her thumb along the line of his jaw. “Let me help you forget, at least for a little bit.”

  As his shoulders sagged in defeat, Tate allowed her to guide him into the cave wall. Cold stone chilled his bare back, but the rest of his body was on fire, the flames growing stronger as Eva sank to her knees in front of him and took his erection in her hands.

  Somehow he managed to do what she’d asked. He put the pain away. Cleared his mind of the unwanted images and incensed thoughts. Closed his eyes. Tangled one hand in Eva’s silky hair.

  At the first brush of her lips over his cock, a moan slipped out of his mouth. His hips thrust of their own volition, seeking Eva, seeking relief. She didn’t hesitate. She took him in the warm, wet recess of her mouth and sucked him so delicately that shivers skated up his spine.

  A part of him felt unworthy of the worship she bestowed him with. She teased him with her fingers and lips and tongue, until the pressure in his groin was too much to bear.

  “I’m too close,” he murmured, stilling her loving movements by cradling her head. “Come up here.”

  She rose without a word, her arms coming up to loop around his neck, her head tilting and lips parting in anticipation of his kiss. Taking possession of her mouth, he kissed her roughly, that thread of desperation once again coiling inside him, threatening to snap at any moment.